


Ashes, Ashes

by IvyMcAllister



Series: Delphi-verse [1]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: AU, Hints of Non-con, Lemon, M/M, Non-Canonical Violence, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyMcAllister/pseuds/IvyMcAllister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A few days after the suits showed up, he thought he'd picked up a tail.  Two days after that, he knew his instincts had been right.   He stood on his small balcony, pointedly not looking at the familiar blue Crown Victoria parked about a block away.  They were watching him with a scope.  He knew.  He could see them."</p><p>This is the first of three AU stories in what I call the Delphi-verse, simply because I never came up with a better name and it becomes a DUG (<i>Demon Under Glass</i>) crossover in story 2.  The second story in the series, <i>We All Fall Down</i>, is either up already, or will be as soon as I get it formatted.  All the Delphi stories can stand on their own, but they do invite the reader to explore the others.</p><p>Fair warning--Jim is not exactly Mr. Nice Guy in this one, so Blair *really* has his work cut out for him.  (And gets some Jim-inflicted bumps and bruises along the way.)  If this squicks you, back away while you still can!  If you're hesitant, don't worry--it all works out in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally Appeared in _Whispers of the Heart IX_ (Angel Wings Press). Also posted at the WWOMB/Squidge (dot) org. Many thanks to my original betas, phnx51, The Gypsy Moth, and Bast.
> 
> The Sentinel, Jim, Blair and all related concepts are the property of Pet Fly Productions. I have made no profit from this work, etc. etc. The Lone Gunmen aren't mine, either. *sniffle* But since their owners don't play with them anymore, I borrowed them for a mention. (They'll get some screen time in part 3 of the series.)

Ashes, Ashes

 

James Ellison glanced at the dim LED display set in the old Ford's dashboard, squinting a bit to shield his eyes from the benign blue glow. It was practically 2:00 a.m. Stifling a groan, he shifted uncomfortably on the seat. He'd been driving for almost three hours. 

He shook his head slightly, wincing at the resulting pain that flared behind his eyes, and gripped the steering wheel tighter. He was stiff, tired and hungry, but that was nothing compared to the unrelenting, gut twisting headache he'd been trying to live with for the last twenty-three days. When the headache had started, he'd tried to ignore it, but it quickly became almost unbearable. It had to be the worst migraine he'd had in his entire forty years on this earth, raised to the power of ten. And it was steadily getting worse. 

Jim's teeth clenched when the truck shifted gears and the transmission emitted a hair-raising screech of protest. 

The sensory spikes were also getting more severe, and more frequent. One by one, his senses were betraying him. Sometimes the slightest sound was enough to deafen him, the tiniest glare a blinding flash, and a faint scent enough to make him gag. 

He sighed, shifting again as an errant spring in the pickup's cracked bench seat poked him in an indelicate area.

He'd been trying to deal with all this shit for months, but nothing seemed to make a difference. The VA doctors had run dozens of painful, invasive tests on every part of his aching anatomy before labeling his condition "psychosomatic." 

This resulted in referrals to a seemingly endless series of psychologists, but shrinks were all the same. 

They wanted him to talk about Peru - talk about the accident that had claimed the lives of his men - talk about the guilt, the responsibility... But Ellison just wanted to forget. 

They'd prescribed pills to numb him to what was going on outside, hypnotists to burrow inside, chiropractors to twist his bones and more shrinks to twist his mind. And Yoga!?! He'd let out a derisive snort at the thought. 

*Buncha touchy-feely new-age-rhymes-with-sewage hippie crap....*

After he'd tried every reasonable treatment (and a few that could be described as unorthodox, at best) a couple of suits from the NID and the NSA started sniffing around. They were interested, they said, in what they loosely termed his "potential." 

Ellison told them to fuck off. 

He was surprised when they promptly and politely apologized for interrupting his recuperation, fading into the woodwork they seemed to have crawled from. But some of his old army buddies had made it to high places, and they let Jim know that it might be in his best interest to be "cured" very, very soon. 

A few days after the suits showed up, he thought he'd picked up a tail. Two days after that, he knew his instincts had been right. He stood on his small balcony, pointedly not looking at the familiar blue Crown Victoria parked about a block away. They were watching him with a scope. He knew. He could see them.

Jim smiled grimly, turned and nonchalantly wandered back into his loft. He'd been more than a little pleased to see the one with the scope start in his seat when Jim seemed to look directly at him. 

That night, he'd packed a few essentials in his old army duffel and slipped out via the roof access to the fire escape. 

He was officially on the run.

 

* * *

 

And weeks later, he was still running. Even as off his game as he was, he had still been a Ranger - had still been involved with covert ops, so he wasn't sure how the hell they were tracking him - the guys were that good. They switched teams, vehicles and even license plates regularly, but as the weeks wore on and his instincts started kicking into high gear, the MIBs-of-the-week were no longer a match for Ellison's increasing vigilance and paranoia. It had been easy enough to lose them. 

Ellison was on auto-pilot. He had been since around the time he'd first noticed the problems with his senses. But as time passed, the drive to fight - to survive - had become all-consuming. His Ranger training and some new atavistic, determined instinct had taken over, and there was nothing he wasn't capable of. 

And there was another drive as well, one hovering just outside his consciousness. He could feel it gnawing at him when he was still and quiet, pushing him to search for... something. He brushed it away. It wasn't a priority. Not yet - not when they knew he was onto them, and it was only going to get uglier from here on in. 

He had to do some damage control. Needed to buy himself some time. 

 

* * *

Vagrants and the homeless were common enough in Las Vegas. It had only taken an hour to find someone close to his own height, and it had taken less than a minute to make him dead. After he'd pulverized the guy's face, making sure to eliminate the possibility of dental records being used to ID the body, he'd taken it out to the desert and burned it. Not badly - just enough to make visual identification next to impossible. 

He'd listened to the coyotes and desert animals, distant traffic, the rush of wind and the roar of the fire - anything to block out the nauseating sizzle and pop of cooking skin and fat. His stomach had nearly rebelled when a piece of ashen, charred flesh rode a wave of heat and wind to land in his eye. He'd scrubbed frantically to stop the burning and stinging, and his eyes had watered until he was blinded by tears. 

Long after the irritant was purged, the silent tears continued, but the need to survive--to find… something--held him together. 

Extinguishing the fire as completely as possible, he'd then wrapped the remains in a tarp and stored them in the trunk of the tiny silver-gray Fiero he'd stolen in Reno. To Ellison's sensitive nose, the stench of cooked flash and ashes was inescapable, even with the body wrapped in layer upon layer of the thick, rubbery smelling vinyl.

In Carson City, he'd purchased a small fire-safe box and filled it with all his personal papers: ID, credit cards, discharge papers, some family photos and some very personal letters for authenticity. He didn't have time to get sentimental - in his mind, James J. Ellison was already dead. 

After shoving the small metal box in the narrow storage space behind the passenger seat, Ellison headed for Utah. When he reached the border, he stopped in Mesquite, and again in Saint George, not far from Dixie College, for gas. 

It was 3:00 a.m., bitterly cold and moonless. After pulling the car off on a side road, Ellison attempted to arrange the charred body in the driver's seat. 

It wasn't easy. 

It had been tough enough for Jim to get in and out of the tiny two-seater, but the corpse had stiffened significantly, making maneuvering and positioning it both awkward and difficult. The smell didn't help. Despite the fact that the flesh was well and truly cooked, the odor was repugnant. His training again asserted itself, however, and he got on with the job. 

Once he'd finally gotten the body in place, he wedged the brake pedal down with a heavy piece of two-by-four tied to a length of nylon rope. Starting the engine, he used the corpse's stiff leg and foot to press the gas pedal to the floor. Since the car was already facing the valley below, all he had to do was pull the rope attached to the board, releasing the brake, and car was flying over the edge of the twisting mountain curve. Conveniently placed gasoline cans would take care of the rest.

It was a matter of seconds before a resounding explosion and flash of orange light sent Jim to his knees despite the earplugs he'd worn. Staggering to his feet, he shoved the fetid tarp he'd used to wrap the body and the piece of wood and rope in a large duffel bag. Bending his head against the cold and raising the collar of his jacket, he began the long walk down the mountain. 

James Joseph Ellison was dead.

And through it all, drowning in instinct, choking on the fluid need to fight, to escape, was another Jim Ellison. And he was screaming. 

 

* * *

Commando Jim drove back the way he'd come up, heading north towards Oregon. He'd stolen yet another SUV, and this one had heated seats--a real bonus, since the chill from his trek down the mountain had allowed the cold to penetrate his bones. 

The new ID and passport in his jacket said his name was Eddie Coleman, an auto mechanic from New Jersey. A well-loved photo of a couple of grinning kids seated on the edge of a swimming pool completed the picture of thwarted domesticity he was trying to project. Divorced and paying child support, he was moving out West to get away from his old life and look for work. 

He stopped at a few libraries on his way up the coast, and after days and hours of painful online research - he'd had to wear sunglasses just to look at the computer monitor - Ellison found what he'd been looking for. It wasn't much to go on, but anything was better than what he was living through now. He'd made his decision in seconds, compelled once again by some nameless atavistic drive. 

Behind his retreating form, the vacated public internet terminal displayed a large, colorful page header - "Rainier University Anthropological Studies: Modern Sentinels, by Dr. Blair J. Sandburg." 

 

* * *

Ellison could hardly believe that not even twenty-four hours had passed since he'd found that web site. And, possibly, his salvation. 

He cringed again as the headlights from an approaching car speared through his retinas. Brightly colored shapes danced before him like flashburn, making his aching head throb uncontrollably. With a groan that was equal parts pain and disgust, he hit the brakes and let the elderly truck rattle off the road onto the gravely shoulder.

Ellison rested his forehead against the cool, hard plastic of the steering wheel. He shielded his face with his hands, fingers clenching convulsively as he tried to ignore the searing pain and blaze of garish hues behind his eyelids. Stifling a groan, he sat up, flicking a quick glance over at the still figure to his right. 

On the opposite side of the sun-cracked bench seat, Dr. Blair Sandburg was slumped against the passenger door. His wrists were tightly bound, and long, curly hair obscured most of a deceptively young, unlined face. 

To Ellison's tortured ears, Blair's shallow, irregular breaths were like titanic echoes of sandpaper scraping concrete. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the unconscious teacher. It would be so easy… very, very easy to erase that particular pain. To still the pounding of the kid's goddamned heart that bored into his eardrums as painfully and surely as that rasping, sandpaper breath. 

Pushing those thoughts away, Ellison sighed and pulled back onto the road. He hadn't gone to all the trouble to grab the guy just so he could kill him, Ellison reminded himself. There would be plenty of time for that after he'd learned what he needed to know. 

After another twenty minutes and the unwelcome onslaught of several more pairs of headlights, a sign marking the Oregon border shimmered into view. 

*Not much farther. Stay awake.*

 

* * *

He had been so focused on ignoring his headache that he'd almost missed the road to the cabin. After twisting up a long, uneven path, the tiny, ramshackle structure appeared almost directly in front of him. He'd parked directly in front, struggling to maneuver Dr. Sandburg's limp body through the cabin's low, narrow doorway.

Navigating confidently despite the complete blackness, Ellison went straight for the fireplace and let the doctor's body slip unceremoniously to the floor. Two iron rings protruded from the stone fireplace surround. While they had probably been used to hang an ash scoop or poker, Ellison wasted no time securing his prisoner's wrists to the rings with the same nylon rope that bound them. Ellison could smell the blood from the tight bindings, but he didn't care. The smell of blood - including his own - was not high on the list of things he noticed anymore.

After testing the knots a final time, Ellison collapsed onto the cot in the middle of the dank, stale little room and slept.

* * *


	2. Ashes...

After testing the knots a final time, Ellison collapsed onto the cot in the middle of the dank, stale little room and slept.

* * *

 

Blair awoke slowly, coaxed from his unnatural sleep by the soft sunlight that was scraping its way through the shack's grimy windows. *What,* he thought to himself, *the FUCK just happened?* He squinted at his unfamiliar, blurry surroundings. And where the hell was he? He gave up trying to focus. That was a mystery he wouldn't be able to solve without his glasses.

He realized he was bound the second he tried to stretch his ached and cramping muscles. He let out a loud, involuntary sigh, jerking reflexively with panic when he felt a hand gripping his left bicep like a steel jaw trap. 

"Is it true?" a man's hoarse voice asked. Blair squinted as the face that went with the vice grip swam into focus mere inches from Blair's own. He pulled away, struggling frantically. 

"Get the fuck off me! Let go!" Blair was screaming in the guy's face in a blind, panicked fury. "Where the hell am I and who the *hell* are you?" 

Blair was breathing rapidly, heart pounding, inches from a panic attack, but that all became irrelevant when his as-yet-unseen captor slammed a fist into his jaw. The back of the doctor's head cracked against the unyielding stone of the fireplace, and he saw nothing beyond a flash of blinding white swallowed immediately by unconsciousness.

Collapsing at almost the same moment as his captive, Ellison half-writhed, half-crawled towards the cot, clutching his head and trying not to breathe. Although the sound of his own breath in his lungs was screaming agony, the doctor's outburst had been far, far worse. 

*Idiot,* he berated himself. *Fucking idiot. You should have gagged him. You should have told him if he made a sound above a whisper, you'd blow his fucking head off. See how pathetic you are, Ellison? You let a fucking *academic* put you on the floor.* 

After a few minutes, Ellison recovered enough to move. Aware that Sandburg was still out cold, he looked for something to gag him with. Anything to shut him up, anything to keep the pain away. 

His eyes came to rest on the cot. After ripping a strip of cloth from the filthy sheet, Ellison wadded up another hunk of the grimy fabric which he shoved between Sandburg's slack, unresisting lips. Using the strip to secure it in place, he finally allowed himself to relax enough to examine the damage to the doctor's skull. 

Sandburg's head hung limply against his chest, white t-shirt spattered and flecked with blood from a split lip. His breathing was regular but shallow. Ellison had known the second the blow made contact that it was overkill, but it didn't matter now. What mattered was the trickle of blood matting the curls to the back of Dr. Sandburg's skull.

Ellison parted the thick hair at the source of the cut, pressing sensitized fingers into the tender area. His Army medic training had kicked in, and he felt for fractures and swelling, assessing the damage.

When his attentions elicited a groan from his captive, he let the still limp head fall forward again and backed away. He hadn't detected any damage beyond the cut - it was just a scalp wound. And scalp wounds bled. It would stop soon enough. 

 

* * *

Groaning, Dr. Sandburg gingerly lifted his head from where it had been resting uncomfortably on his chest. His neck protested, but he ignored the discomfort and concentrated instead on trying to make sense of the fuzzy, undulating world around him. 

He remembered… He remembered waking up somewhere strange. There had been someone - a man - asking him something, asking him if something was true. 

If what was true? Can't remember…. 

He knew he'd yelled at the man, and then… Ah. The guy had decked him. That's probably why the back of his head was telling him he'd been kicked by a horse.

Blair started at the sound of his captor's cold, emotionless voice. 

"Head hurts, doesn't it?" 

It had been a statement, not a question, and not exactly dripping with concern.

"Mmm-hmmph." 

"Good. Then we're even. If you make another sound above a whisper, you're dead. Understand?" 

Still wide-eyed with shock, Sandburg nodded an affirmative, and Ellison seemed to relax. He closed the gap between them with a couple long strides and gripped Blair's chin in his hand, eyeing the smaller man critically as he removed the filthy gag from Blair's mouth.

"Your pupils are dilated. May be a concussion. You'd better stay awake, Doc, if you want to live long enough to see the end of this."

His vision was clearing gradually, and Sandburg found himself staring into a pair of tired, bloodshot blue eyes. Yes! He remembered now. That voice… He'd said his name was Ellison. 

And memory came crashing home. 

 

* * *


	3. We

_His vision was clearing gradually, and Sandburg found himself staring into a pair of tired, bloodshot blue eyes. Yes! He remembered now. That voice… He'd said his name was Ellison._

_And memory came crashing home._

 

* * *

 

1:40 p.m. Friday, the day before, Dr. Blair Sandburg's office at Rainier University

 

Blair had gathered his backpack and notes in preparation for his 2 o'clock class. Hand on the doorknob, Blair had been just about to leave his office when the phone rang. 

He sighed. 

He should just let it go, he thought. He didn't want to be late, and besides, almost nobody called him at work except students and coworkers, and they could leave a message.

But the double ring tone said the call was coming from off-campus. It could be his ex, Phil, trying to make amends. Again. The guy always knew what to say to make Blair feel guilty - like their problems had been his own fault. 

*Well, not this time, pal,* Blair thought. *Forget it.* 

But then it could just be a commuting student or someone at home, sick, and needing him to cover a class or two.

He sighed again and dropped his backpack on his chair as he caught the phone on the third ring.

"This is Dr. Sandburg," he said, forcing more good humor into his voice than he felt. 

"Dr. Sandburg. I think I'm the man you've been looking for."

Sandburg's breath caught in his throat, but he kept the excitement out of his voice. "I have several fields of expertise, but I'm afraid I'm not accepting any applications for study volunteers at the moment. If you want to fax me something I could - "

"Are you, or are you not," the voice was tight, controlled - almost angry, "interested in Sentinels?" The last word was carefully pronounced, like it was in a foreign language.

"I'm always interested in Sentinels." Blair felt confidence creep back into his voice. "I've been studying the Sentinel phenomenon for almost fifteen years. Do you have something to share with me…?" He let the question trail off, hoping the caller would offer more information.

"I'm your Holy Grail, Sandburg." The voice practically purred. "I'm your fucking wet dream. And all you have to do is be there, in your office, at 10:30 tonight, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."

Blair stared to reply, but the man cut him off before he could even get a full breath.

"And be alone, Doctor. I'm…" Ellison paused. "…kind of… incognito, right now."

Blair let the cloak and dagger stuff go right over his head. His excitement was palpable, and it was all he could do to keep it in check. He didn't want to scare the guy off, and despite the cavalier speech, he sounded quite tense.

"Hey, man, that's great. No problem. I understand. Look, here's my cell phone number, in case you're gonna be - "

"10:30." 

He'd cut Blair off again, this time ending the call with a decisive click.

Blair spent the rest of the day practically bouncing from class to class, beaming at everyone and laughing at anything that was even halfway humorous. Given how down he'd been lately, it was a refreshing change for him and the rest of the Anthropology department. 

Everybody knew his grants had been canceled - it was written all over his expressive face. It wasn't like he hadn't seen it coming. All those years of poring over dusty monographs, ancient texts, yellowed parchment and interview sheets reeking of mildew, and all it had gotten him was a few examples of people with one, or perhaps two heightened senses. 

A woman in New Jersey who could smell the difference between supposedly "odorless" gasses, an octogenarian in Florida who could - despite advancing age - hear conversations almost anywhere in the sterile sanitized-white nursing home. Blair had thanked God the man hadn't had a heightened sense of smell, because Blair's own was giving him enough trouble. He'd never liked nursing homes. 

Then there was little Jennifer Barry. Amazing. The girl could read a standard 12 point font from about fifty yards away. Her mother and father had initially agreed to the study. They'd responded like any other proud parents when Blair had used such promising, comforting buzzwords as "gifted" and "talented." 

After a couple weeks, however, when they began to see just what else their daughter was capable of, they had balked and run. The note they left for him at his hotel said they had become concerned with Jenny's safety. That if Blair was so interested in what the girl could do, others wouldn't be far behind. He had to admit, he agreed with them. 

Still, none of it had been enough. His theory of the existence of an actual Sentinel - the real deal, all five senses heightened and controllable - was impossible to prove without a living, breathing subject. And none was forthcoming. Quite frankly, he could see why not. No doubt the entire scientific community - not to mention the government - would be all over anyone who'd ever come within 100 yards of him if he published anything even remotely plausible. Hell, they might even grab him. 

With no new information forthcoming, no new leads to follow, he couldn't keep publishing - couldn't keep his project in the public eye. As the interest of his peers, heavy academics and journals began to dwindle, his grant money dried up along with it. At least his little corner of the web was still his. The Powers That Be hadn't noticed it, yet, and he wasn't going to bring it to their attention. 

Ten o'clock came and went, and Blair was first-date nervous. He wanted to put this Ellison guy at ease, but he knew he'd have to settle himself down first. He spent fifteen minutes cross-legged on his office floor, meditating to the soothing sounds of Tibetan temple bells, letting the relaxing rhythm spread over him in a wave of peaceful serenity. He took a final deep breath and stood, glancing at the wall clock and noting with satisfaction that it was almost time for his guest to arrive. Blair seated himself behind his ramshackle desk, grabbed a pen to toy with, and waited. 

 

* * *

Ellison lurked outside the side entrance to Hargrove Hall, waiting for Dr. Sandburg to call it a night. He was already fifteen minutes late for his "appointment" with the man and figured that Sandburg would give up and go home within the hour. And when he did, he'd be waiting.

 

* * *

It was almost 11:oo p.m., and Blair was ready to go home. It was late, he was crashing from the day's adrenaline rush, and it was getting pretty obvious that this Ellison guy was a no-show. Sighing, Sandburg gathered a few books and papers into his backpack and headed for the door that led to the faculty parking lot.

 

* * *

Ellison's acute hearing had been fluctuating wildly, but it easily picked up the muffled sounds of footsteps on the marble floor inside the darkened building. They were headed the right way, but it sounded like they were also getting more muffled. Glancing down the side of the building, Ellison saw another, smaller entrance towards the east wing. With all the stealth his Ranger training provided, Ellison slipped through the shadows closest to the wall and crouched beside the little-used exit.

 

* * *

Blair hit the push-bar on the usually automatic door - it was deactivated at this hour, since no students should be in the building. Emerging into the cool Cascade night, he barely had time to draw a breath when something was clamped over his mouth and nose. Whatever it was, it burned to breathe it, and he struggled violently until his heavy, uncooperative limbs made fighting impossible. He slipped into unconsciousness looking into a pair of the coldest eyes he'd ever seen.

 

* * *


	4. All

**8:45 a.m. Saturday, at the cabin**

Dr. Sandburg was glaring into those eyes now, trying his damnedest not to allow a quiver in his voice when he finally spoke again, intentionally keeping his voice soft and low. 

"You're him." Blair practically breathed the words. "The guy on the phone." 

"Ellison. The name's Ellison." Despite his obvious physical exhaustion and discomfort, the hard stare didn't waver. Didn't the guy ever blink?

"I waited for you, you know. You could have just kept the meeting. Why this?" Blair tilted his head to indicate his bound wrists. "Why the cloak and dagger stuff?"

"They're watching me. All the time." Ellison's hunted look almost earned Blair's sympathy. Almost. It was the first emotion he'd seen besides anger on that coldly beautiful face, and it was a relief. 

"Who's watching you?" Blair asked. He hoped he could lead Ellison into a more sympathetic mindset if he asked the right questions. "The government? The military?"

Ellison eyed the bound figure appraisingly. He might as well tell him. It wouldn't matter anyway if he ended up finalizing him. Besides, if he earned Sandburg's sympathy, it might make him easier to manage.

"The military," he sighed, letting some of his exhaustion show in his voice. "And the government. They watch you, too, you know. I had to do it that way, to make it look like you were the innocent party." 

He paused at the doctor's shocked look, letting his words sink in before continuing. It wasn't all lies. Not exactly. 

"They've been following your work, waiting for the right subject to show up before they acted." He paused again. "Me."

Ellison hadn't realized it yet, but in the short time they'd been talking his headache had receded to a dull throbbing in his temples. Feeling inexplicably better, Ellison began to relax even more. He started studying Sandburg more closely. He knew he'd never seen the kid before, but there was something very familiar about that open, unlined face. 

Sandburg was getting agitated. "You're saying the government has been spying on me, waiting for me to find a real, 100% Sentinel? Then what were they gonna do, just grab the poor bastard off the street, haul 'em off to a lab somewhere and use 'em as a guinea pig?" Blair was getting angry, now, and his voice was getting louder. "No way, man, no way. I cannot believe this. When I think about all the people who've come to me… trusted me not to reveal their identities… I can't believe I didn't expect this." 

He tried to run a hand through his hair - a typical nervous gesture - but gave up when he realized he couldn’t move his arm that far. 

"Jennifer's parents were right to run. I only wish I'd seen all this sooner." His head snapped up, suddenly alert. "Ellison, man, I need to go back to Rainier. I've gotta destroy my notes… my files. All of it, now, before anyone else gets their hands on it." 

"Like hell, Chief. You're going nowhere." Ellison's expression was impassive. "Besides, I torched the place. There's nothing left."

"You WHAT???" Blair had screamed the words, eliciting a strangled moan from an unsuspecting Ellison. The man was on his feet in seconds, his fist raised in preparation to backhand Blair into oblivion.

"Wait!" Sandburg had to think fast. He continued more quietly, whispering. "I know what's bothering you, Ellison. I know how much you're hurting. I can help, if you let me. I want to help, man." Sandburg continued his litany, searching for the right words to relax the irate man towering above him. "I want to help you. See? I can be quiet. Please, let me help you. Let me try…."

And wonder of wonders, his wheedling seemed to be getting through to Ellison. The tense fist lowered and the rage drained from his face leaving a very sick, sad-looking man sagging over Sandburg.

"How?" Ellison rasped. "How can you help me?"

His color was off, and he was sweating a bit. Blair thought his ill-timed outburst had probably sent the guy's hearing off the chart.

Blair took a deep breath, preparing for the retribution he knew might be coming. "Just let me go, and I'll show you. You said this was all for show - to make me look innocent, right? So you can let me go."

Ellison tensed immediately, but Blair pressed on, not giving the man time to think about what he'd said. He'd been pretty sure that bit had been crap - about the kidnapping being for his benefit. Otherwise, why was he still tied to a wall? Still, he had to try to get the guy to relax. To trust him. And if Ellison thought Blair was buying into his bullshit, so much the better. 

"Just free up one hand for me, man, just one hand and my glasses are all I need. And some water and a sponge, or something like that. Maybe a clean rag…" He let the flow of words trickle off before continuing. "Please? Let me help you. Please." Blair knew he was on shaky ground when he asked Jim to free his wrist, and he didn’t want to push too hard. Yet. 

He waited patiently, his eyes never leaving Ellison's pinched, drawn face. The man was definitely hurting.

Inside, Jim Ellison was in limbo somewhere between fear and fury. Sandburg's little tantrum had left a buzzing in his ears. Just the feel of his jeans against his skin left an itching, burning rawness, and the damned headache was surging again, threatening to peak at its previously intolerable severity. He couldn't keep this up much longer. 

The kid really thought he'd let him go - even one hand - just like that? Hell, he should have shot him. It wouldn't do not to carry out his threats. But Sandburg also seemed sure of himself, sure he could fix this, and that's why Jim had grabbed him in the first place. And underlying it all was the persistent, niggling feeling that this - Blair - was what he needed. Was who he needed. 

Listening to that soft, calming voice, Ellison wanted nothing but to sink down and bury his face against the smaller man's neck. It would feel so good to just let go for a change….

Where the hell had that come from? *Great, Ellison,* Jim berated himself. *The longhaired little shit's been conscious for less than ten minutes, and you're already thinking with your dick, letting him sweet talk you.* 

But he could still hear Blair talking patiently, quietly, like there was nothing unusual going on here at all, like he woke up tied to walls every day and it was just fine with him. Just the sound of the kid's voice was making him sleepy. Sleepy, and… warm. There was something hauntingly familiar about the doctor's voice.

Ellison made a decision, then, that would change his life. Before his conscious mind could bitch-slap his subconscious into submission, Jim had reached over and untied Sandburg's right hand. He then fished the pair of thick-lensed glasses out of the professor's shirt pocket and, turning around, he grabbed some bottled water and ripped another bit of sheeting from the cot. He handed everything to Sandburg, not meeting the doctor's eyes. 

"Drink some if you need to," he said gruffly, looking away while the kid took a few tentative sips before deciding it was safe and finishing half the bottle.

"Thanks, man." Blair flashed a small, but genuine smile. "I really needed that." His voice was smoother, now, and more assured. He managed to get his glasses on with a minimum of fuss and looked up at Ellison. 

"What's your name? Ellison…?" He let the question hang, trying not to look too eager.

Ellison flinched a bit at the almost instantaneous, unchecked answer that popped from his lips. "James. James Ellison. Jim."

"Great. Nice to meet you, Jim." Another smile. Jim could get used to that. 

"I'm Blair Sandburg. Dr. Blair Sandburg. And since you're the man with the gun, you can call me whatever the hell you want." Sandburg smiled wryly at his little attempt at humor. "Now, Jim, let's see what I can do for you." 

Jim watched as Blair carefully arranged himself so he was seated, cross-legged, on the hearth. "Lie down here, Jim," Blair encouraged him, patting the floor in front of the fireplace with his free hand. "You can use the pillow off the cot if you want to." 

Jim stared at the angry red weals around Sandburg's liberated wrist before he shook his head slightly. Oozing suspicion, stalked over to the cot, snatched up the pillow and returned to stand awkwardly in front of the fireplace. Blair watched as Jim shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, obviously not wanting to make himself vulnerable in front of Blair.

Sandburg thought fast. Since talk was all he had, he figured he'd better use it. *Keep it light, keep it friendly, Sandburg…*

"Come on, big guy. It's cool, man. I do this all the time at the university with the other tes - " Blair caught himself. He'd been about to say "test subjects." Clinically speaking, that's what they had been, but he thought it might be a good idea to personalize things a bit under the circumstances. 

"The other… volunteers," he continued, barely missing a beat. "Just get settled here on the floor, and we'll get started." He figured it was a risk, but he continued, saying, "Bet you'll be glad to get rid of that headache, right man?"

A quick glance at Ellison's face and Blair knew he'd scored. While the guy hadn't mentioned a headache, Blair's experience had taught him that long-term sensory overload and over-stimulation often led to ass-kicking migraines. And it was painfully obvious from Ellison's actions that his senses were spiraling out of control.

Jim was lying down now, head on the thin, grimy pillow, looking for all the world like a sullen child at nap time.

Blair ignored the obviously irritated Sentinel and the bone-deep throbbing in his bound arm, busying himself by soaking the bit of cloth he was holding with the bottled water until it was not quite dripping. Not an easy task with one free hand, but he put the cloth down on the hearth and poured the water over it carefully to avoid wasting any. Blair sat up straighter, taking a deep, slow breath to steady himself. 

Now came the hard part. *Control, Sandburg. Con. Trol. So what if he's hot as hell? He's a fucking kidnapper - YOUR fucking kidnapper - and you can't afford to lose it now. Deep breaths….*

Not wanting to startle the loose cannon that was Jim Ellison, Blair said, "I'm going to touch you now, Jim. Just relax and go with it, okay? This'll help, I promise."

Reaching forward slowly, trying not to let his hand shake, he patted Jim's face with the cloth. Lightly, tentatively, testing the waters. If Jim objected, he didn't show it. On the contrary, his eyes had drifted closed, and his breathing was definitely evening out. That tiny bit of relaxation was a natural response to lying down - a sympathetic response from the body associating the position with sleep.

Good enough, Blair thought. Starting at Jim's forehead and working down over the high cheekbones and along the strong jaw, Blair gently and carefully removed the dirt and sweat from Jim's tense features. After spreading the cool cloth across Jim's brow, Blair began a rhythmic massage of his scalp, working his way gradually out toward Jim's temples. 

After just a couple of minutes, Sandburg could see the tension leaving Ellison's face. Emboldened by his success, Blair started speaking softly, calming reassurances that only Jim could hear. Soon, Blair decided that Jim was as relaxed as he was probably going to get. And it had been surprisingly simple. Too simple, man. It was time to move on.

"Jim, are you with me?" Blair kept his voice soft and low, but he wasn't whispering anymore. 

"Hmmm." There was barely a mumble in reply.

Blair allowed himself a tight smile. This was gonna be easier than he'd thought. 

"Okay, now. Just relax and go with me here, Jim. I want you to picture a set of dials. Five dials, okay, like the volume control on a stereo. There's one for each of your senses. Picture them now, Jim, as I name them for you. Touch… Smell… Sight… Taste… Hearing…" 

Blair paused between each word, allowing Ellison a few seconds to picture the dials. Using the same soft, soothing tones, he continued to talk Ellison through the exercise he was inventing as they went along. 

But while his voice and manner were soothing, his mind was racing. *I have to think of a way to get his senses down to manageable levels, but I also need to give him a way to control them himself…. And the best way to do that is to give him the tools to do it with. Here we go, Sandburg, old buddy. See you on the other side.*

"The dials have settings from zero to ten, zero being inactive and ten being the highest. These dials control the sensitivity - the intensity - of each of your senses. Picture that first dial, the touch dial." He paused. "Can you see it, Jim?" 

No reply.

"Jim, can you see the touch dial? Picture it, with numbers zero through ten, okay? You have it, now?"

"Mmmhmmm," came the mumbled affirmative.

"Okay. Now, I want you to tell me what the dial is set at right now. What number is the dial pointing to?"

Jim was slow to answer, but Blair waited him out. 

"Ten." It was barely a breath, but Blair caught it, shaking his head. 

God, the guy had to be hurting. Without thinking, he reached out and rested a gentle hand on Jim's forehead in a purely instinctive, comforting gesture. Blair expected to be rejected as soon as he'd realized what he'd done, especially when "touch" was through the roof, but strangely enough, Jim didn't pull away. Instead, he seemed to relax even more deeply, turning his face slightly into Blair's palm. 

Blair shook his head, a small smile playing about his lips. The guy had been acting like a commando coming down from a crack high, and now he was practically putty in Blair's hands. What was wrong with this picture? He sighed, shaking his head again. He'd worry about that later. 

"Alright, Jim, okay. We're almost there. This is the easy part, man. All you have to do is dial it down. Just turn the dial down, slowly, until it's set at four, okay? I'll count for you, and you just picture that dial going down, can you do that for me? Here we go."

With each number, Blair gently stroked the hair back from Jim's forehead. "Ten… Nine... Eight... You can feel where I'm touching you, Jim, and it's getting lighter and lighter. Seven... Six... Almost there, Jim. Five... and... Four."

Blair drew his hand away and rubbed his bound wrist while he let Jim adjust to his new "settings." The pain in his arm and wrist had passed almost quickly into a stinging, prickling numbness, but now it just felt cold. After about a minute, he spoke again, still quietly but with more animation.

"How's that headache, Big Guy?"

"'S'better."

"That's great, Jim. Great. Now we're going to do the same thing with the rest of the dials, and then we're gonna do one more exercise, and you can sleep for awhile, how's that sound?"

"Soun's good," Jim slurred.

Blair talked Jim through the process of turning down the remaining four dials - all of which Jim said were registering tens when they started. Blair was stunned. It was a miracle Ellison was functioning at all.

After giving Jim a few minutes to relax again, Blair decided it was time for the final exercise. He took a deep breath. It was a pet theory of his, but he'd never had a chance to test it. Until now. Blair was sure it would work, but he still risked pissing the guy off if it backfired.

"Okay, Jim. One more thing, and it's naptime, okay?" He took his hand from where it had been resting on Jim's forearm and placed it over the other man's heart, rubbing gently. 

"We're gonna picture one more dial now, but this one's a little different. This one controls how you feel specific kinds of sensations. We're gonna call this one a pain dial."

Jim frowned a bit, and the soothing hand Blair was smoothing across his chest picked up an increase in Jim's heart rate. Blair stopped advancing the exercise, stroking more lightly over Jim's chest and murmuring nothing in particular about how relaxed and well Jim would feel very, very soon. When a few minutes had passed and Jim showed no further adverse reaction to the scheme, Blair pressed on.

"It's gonna be fine, Jim, this is just what you need. It's gonna knock that headache right out, man, I promise you." He kept lightly rubbing Jim's chest, felt the heartbeat slow a bit. God, he couldn’t keep his hands off the guy! *Blair, buddy, you've gotta get over G. I. Joe here and get with the program, man. You can think about the ramifications later.* Feeling Jim's slow, steady heartbeat beneath his fingers, Blair shook his head slightly as if clearing it and started talking Jim down again. 

"Same deal as before, okay, Jim? Just picture the dial that controls your pain response and tell me what it says."

"Nnn... mmmmm... Eight?" Jim's tone was questioning, and he was frowning again. 

Blair frowned also, but he thought he knew what the problem was. "Between an eight and a nine, right? Maybe closer to an eight, now that the other dials are down. Okay, Jim, we're gonna turn this dial down, too, just like the others, and then you can sleep, alright?"

Blair was barely moving the hand on Jim's chest as he slowly counted down to four. As the numbers got lower, the tension in Jim's neck and shoulders eased and the telltale muscle in his jaw stopped twitching. Heck, he'd even stopped grinding his teeth! This was great! As uncomfortable as Blair was, he was excited just to be able to help Ellison through this. It just felt... right.

On the count of four, Blair withdrew his hand again. Ignoring the pang of loss that accompanied the loss of contact, Blair asked, "How's that headache now, Jim?"

Ellison didn't answer right away, but when he did, Blair couldn't stop the sigh of relief that escaped his lips. 

"S'gone." Jim's lips turned up slightly in what Blair imagined passed for a smile on the otherwise taciturn face. Sad, though, Blair thought, because the laugh lines around those baby blues told him that James Ellison had seen happier days. 

"Okay, Jim. Time to sleep, now. Just relax and let yourself drift. You're feeling fine, feeling sleepy, and it's okay to let go and relax. You'll wake up when you're ready, and you'll feel refreshed and in control. Sleep now, Jim. Sleep. Just rest…."

Blair let the litany of encouragement taper off and leaned back against the fireplace. As his own tension eased a bit, he realized he'd been leaning forward towards Jim at an awkward angle, and his back was protesting the mistreatment. Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes and willed his muscles to relax. 

As he worked through his own meditation, Blair's thoughts kept returning to Ellison. Who was this guy, really? How the hell was he going to get out of this in one piece? And why did he feel like he'd known the guy his entire life? The almost instantaneous empathy he'd felt for Ellison was freaking Blair out. He hadn't been a captive anywhere near long enough for Stockholm Syndrome to have set in, so what was the deal? 

Shit, the guy had chloroformed him, kidnapped him, dragged him to this shit hole and decked him when he yelled about it, and what did Blair do? Went into full-on mother hen mode and treated Jim like a sick puppy. God, where had that come from, anyway? If he'd had any sense, he'd have left out the pain dial bit. Kept an ace up his sleeve in case the guy decided he didn't need Blair anymore. God, Sandburg, that was stupid, stupid, stupid! 

Shaking his head, Blair began to allow himself to drift into a light doze. He wasn't sure he was going to like a pain-free, in-control Ellison. Not one bit. 

A few seconds later, Blair's eyes flew open and a look of complete and utter shock… or, perhaps, wonder… blanketed his face. Jim was a Sentinel. Blair's protective feelings towards Jim had seemed natural. Programmed. 

Instinctive.

The only person that would respond like that to a Sentinel was a Guide. 

Well, shit.

Letting out a slow, shuddering breath, Blair let his gaze sweep over the man lying before him. He had always been so wrapped up in Sentinels themselves that he hadn't paid much attention to the Guide stuff. He'd always figured that if Sentinels were so hard to find, the odds of any Sentinel finding his--or her--Guide were zero to nothing. But maybe it didn't work like that. Maybe it was more than chance that brought Sentinels and Guides together. Maybe it was fate.

Sandburg let his head drift back against the fireplace, carefully positioning it to avoid putting pressure on the aching portion of his skull. He'd been so distracted with Ellison that he'd managed to forget his own pounding headache. Sighing yet again, Blair settled back as best he could and waited for sleep to come. It never even occurred to him to try to free his completely numb, lifeless left arm from its nylon bindings.

 

* * *


	5. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a Slash/Lemon warning. Yes, there is guy/guy, M/M sex in this one, so if you'd rather skip the nookie, do please move on to the next (and final) last chapter.

_Sighing yet again, Blair settled back as best he could and waited for sleep to come. It never even occurred to him to try to free his completely numb, lifeless left arm from its nylon bindings._

 

* * *

Jim dreamed. 

He was in a jungle clearing watching a large black panther stalking a silvery blue-eyed wolf. The animals circled each other warily, but Jim could swear the wolf didn't look too worried. Lowering its head to the ground in a crouch, the big cat prepared to spring. 

Still seemingly unconcerned, the wolf sank down and rolled over, exposing its belly to the big cat. If a cat could look startled, this one sure did. Assessing its potential lunch with the practiced eye of a hunter, the panther slunk towards the supine wolf. Unperturbed at the panther's advance, the wolf maintained its submissive posture. 

 

* * *

Jim awoke with a start, a silent, "No," on his lips. He'd been dreaming, he realized. A huge black cat had been about to attack a very strange wolf. For some reason, that wasn't sitting well with Jim. And what the hell was a wolf doing in the fucking jungle, anyway? Dreams were weird like that, right? They didn't mean anything. 

Didn't mean anything.

Shaking off the fragments of the already half-remembered dream, Jim surveyed his surroundings. Dim sunlight had wormed its way deep into the little cabin through the violently grimy windowpanes. There was a distinct chill in the musty air. Judging by how low the sun was in the sky, Jim figured it was already about 4:00, maybe 5:00 p.m. 

He sat up slowly, noticing almost immediately that the headache that had been his constant companion for almost a month was completely gone. Smiling a bit, he allowed his gaze to sweep over Blair Sandburg's sleeping form. God, the guy had to be uncomfortable as hell. Instinctively, Jim reached out a finger to trail along Sandburg's lightly stubbled chin. The kid's freed wrist looked better, and Ellison could see that while his jaw was hardly bruised from when Jim had punched him, the split lip had to be painful. 

Jim's breath hitched a bit as he allowed himself a closer inspection of his captive savior. 

Since waking up, his eyesight was sharper than ever. He could see tiny dust motes floating through the room, sliding down the sun's rays and careening in front of his face where his breath stirred them to riot. He could see every one of the thick, softly curling hairs on Blair's chest where they peeked over the top of his white undershirt. They moved slightly as his chest rose and fell, and Jim thought he could actually hear the rustling as they rubbed against the soft, thin cotton fabric. 

Letting his eyes roam across Blair's chest and over his shoulder, Jim followed the line of his left arm up to where his wrist was still bound to the fireplace surround. That soft, strong hand like the one Blair had pressed against his chest was now a sickly grayish color. Where the coarse nylon had rubbed away the skin, the spilt blood had congealed and dried to stick rope to flesh in a filthy parody of healing. Tiny flecks of the dried blood had broken off and drifted to the floor where they formed an invisible circle on the hearth. Invisible to anyone but Jim. What was Sandburg even doing here? Jim couldn't understand it. The kid could have untied himself and been home free hours ago while he, Jim, had been out like a light. 

Ellison carefully, quietly made his way to Blair's side, wanting to let him sleep as long as possible and wondering how much damage had already been done. Gingerly, Jim started to untie the monstrous knot he'd created in his haste to secure his prisoner. He'd tied this side far tighter than the other, and the lack of circulation was painfully obvious. It was slow going, made all the more torturous by the soft breaths from the sleeping face only a few inches from his own. 

Jim's hands were shaking a little by the time he got to the last bit of the knot. Would it be better to wake Sandburg and warn him, or should he support the kid's arm as best he could and get it over with? One way or the other, it was going to hurt.

Hell, he'd go for it. He didn't even know why he cared, but it was all Jim could do to keep from begging for forgiveness, and that was NOT happening, so this would have to do. 

Using his left hand to hold Blair's arm in place, Jim carefully undid the last of the knot and let the rope fall away. It clung tenaciously to the injured wrist like ivy on a tree, but Jim thought he could remove it without too much discomfort. That would come later. 

So slowly that Blair didn't awake right away, Jim started to lower the sleeping man's arm. Jim had it lowered about six inches when Blair moaned and tossed his head a bit before coming to full consciousness with a gasp of pure agony. 

"Oh, God! Shit, that hurts! What did I do? Why are you doing that, Jim?" Blair had turned large, glassy eyes on him. And instead of fighting with his free hand, he was gripping the sleeve of Jim's shirt and pleading with those eyes for Jim to make the pain stop.

Ellison almost didn't have it in him to match that gaze. 

*This is insane, Ellison. You were a fucking Ranger. You've killed ten men for every person this kid can call by name, you've survived the goddamned jungle, you don't DO apologies, you DON'T do guilt. You're just protecting your investment.*

"I had to, Chief. The lack of circulation was getting serious. It hurts like a bitch because you haven't moved it in about fifteen hours." Unable to meet Blair's gaze any longer, Jim turned his attention back to his arm. "I'm going to keep lowering it slowly. Just try to breathe through it. Hey, I know," Jim deadpanned, "why don't you use your pain dial?"

Sandburg hissed as his arm was lowered another couple of inches. "Gee, Jim. Is that a sense of humor in your pocket, or are you just happy to hurt me?" 

Despite his pain, Blair was pleased at the breakthrough. He could only hope that Jim was feeling the same instinctive connection that he was. If that was the case, there was no reason that this shouldn't work out for both of them.

"I haven't got a sense of humor, Chief. You should have figured that out by now." Ellison concentrated on the tense muscles on Blair's arm. "Almost there. I'm going to try something. Tell me if it hurts more than just moving it gradually was doing."

Switching to his left hand to support Blair's arm, Jim used his right hand to start gently massaging Blair's bicep and shoulder. 

"This should help the circulation and loosen up the muscles a bit. You know, take the edge off a little." 

*Yeah, right,* his conscience niggled. *Like taking the edge off third degree burns with aloe vera.* 

Jim sighed. He knew that even the massage was painful for Blair, but it was better than nothing. 

Ellison continued to talk while he worked as much tension out of Blair's arm as he could. It wasn't much, but he could feel a slight difference after a few minutes. The skin felt a bit warmer under his fingers. Blair was taking it stoically. 

"Okay, Chief. We're gonna try this again. Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

"Okay, here we go." 

As Jim eased Blair's arm ever lower, he noticed the increased flexibility and less resistance. Blair seemed more comfortable as well, and Jim decided to massage the arm and lower it at the same time. He started at Blair's shoulder again and worked downward, keeping his touch gentle and still slowly moving Blair's arm a fraction at a time. Aside from the occasional hiss of indrawn breath, Blair remained silent, eyes closed. He was sweating slightly, but Jim knew it was a stress response, not shock. 

Jim's own arms were beginning to tire, but he ignored it and kept working until he had Blair's arm resting in his own lap. Shifting so he was as close to the hearth as possible without sitting on it, he made a closer examination of the limb in question. 

Some color was returning, but honestly, it looked disgusting. Pallid, bluish, bloated and... well… Dead. Sandburg watched Jim's face intently as he started gently rubbing Blair's forearm, pressing into the eerily cold flesh with the pads of his thumbs. 

As he worked wristward, Jim eventually encountered the nylon rope where it was still tightly imbedded in Blair's raw flesh. A scowl settled over the big man's features, and he reached over to the half empty water bottle where it sat to Blair's right. Taking the rag Blair had used on his face, Jim laid it over the rope on Blair's wrist and started slowly pouring water over it, eliciting a hiss of pain from Blair. 

"Sorry." Jim held Blair's forearm just tight enough to keep him from pulling away. "I need to get the rope off, and this is probably the best way to do it. The water'll soften things up. Make it easier to peel away. You can just rip it off if you want to." Regretting the action the minute he did it, Jim let go of Blair's arm and started to sit back, away from the hearth. "Up to you."

"No, no. Please. I'm sorry. It just hurts, is all." Blair was instantly contrite. Part of Jim's brain was jumping around yelling, "It's a trick! He's playing you, Ellison. Sucker." The new, pain-free Jim was whispering louder than the old Ellison could yell, encouraging, "Help him, Jim. You hurt him; you have to fix him. You need to fix him. You need him. Need him. Need…"

The litany continued, and Jim moved forward again to continue softening up the entrenched rope. After soaking a small area for several minutes, he started peeling the edge up slowly to see how effective his method was.

Another hiss escaped Blair's lips, but he managed a "Don't stop," and Ellison continued peeling the blood and fluid soaked rope from the other man's flesh. When it was over, Jim produced a dirty, grime-encrusted basin from under the cot, and held Blair's wrist above it while he poured the last of the water over the wounds. Using the tweezers on his Swiss Army knife, Jim proceeded to pick away the fibers that remained embedded in Sandburg's wrist. It wasn't hard - his eyes seemed to zero in on even the tiniest bits - and he was finished in minutes.

"I don't have anything clean to wrap it with. You're just going to have to be careful with it for awhile."

Blair nodded. His eyes hadn't left Jim's face since he'd picked up the tweezers. He could see the Sentinel's pupils dilate and contract as he located and focused on each new piece of fiber. He could see the muscles in Jim's jaw moving as the other man concentrated on keeping his hand steady. He could also see the marked difference in Jim's expression since he'd woken up, and he had to admit, he liked the new, non-scowling Sentinel.

Flexing his wrist experimentally, Blair smiled warmly at Jim, who barely managed to keep from responding in kind. 

"Thank you. It feels be - "

Jim cut him off, his voice again emotionless. "Don't thank me, Sandburg. We're even. You fixed m..." 

He'd been about to say, "...fixed me," but he couldn't. Instead, he continued with, "...fixed my headache. I took care of the arm. Now we're even. Forget about it." 

Despite his dismissive tone, Jim took hold of Blair's injured arm and continued rubbing life back into it.

The touching was nice, but Blair was concerned that Jim was distancing himself again. Desperate to feel a connection with his Sentinel, Blair decided to be the consummate Guide and focus on Jim's needs.

"How are your senses, Jim? Are the dials working all right? Are you hungry? Most of the research volunteers were hungry after a session. If you have any food, I could make you something. We were on this expedition once, in South America, and the natives, they were cooking these huge grubs, and they wanted us to eat with them, and..."

Jim sat back and listened to Blair talk. And talk. And talk. As he listened to the bright, animated voice, Jim realized he felt more comfortable than he had in months. 

Still, Jim was having a harder time coping with the sudden intimacy than Blair was. While he didn't see any significance in his exhaustion-fueled dreams of huge-ass black cats and blue-eyed wolves, he couldn't deny that he was getting more and more attached to Sandburg as the hours wore on. A week ago, he'd have punched Sandburg out before he'd have let him lay a finger on him for any reason. Now, he found that touch soothing. Comforting. Grounding and overwhelmingly necessary.

Blair watched as Jim continued to massage his corpse-like arm. It should have been agonizing, but Jim's touch was gentle and reassuring. That Jim was the reason for his injuries in the first place was irrelevant. Blair would forgive his Sentinel almost anything. 

Looking up from where Blair's arm rested across his thighs, Jim let his eyes meet Blair's. All he could see was honesty, openness and understanding. Acceptance. The same trusting, easy grace that showed itself in his every gesture, every expression. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Jim smiled a tentative, genuine smile.

And Sandburg returned it with a good natured grin. 

Subtlety in these close quarters was futile, so Jim studied the man in front of him anyway. The curly hair, laughing eyes and compact, muscled body were just window dressing. There was much more to Blair Sandburg, and Jim was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to know him much more intimately. 

Blair knew Jim was studying him. It was not a problem. In return, he let his eyes slip over Jim's outrageously attractive body. Okay, so the guy was built like a brick shithouse and had the bone structure of a god. Big deal. The more Blair got to know Jim Ellison, the more he wanted to know about the man behind the body. 

They both started slightly when they realized that they had moved closer together. Blair rested his good hand on Jim's shoulder and lightly stroked the side of Jim's neck with his thumb.

Jim looked like a deer in headlights. Shifting uncomfortably, he was mildly surprised to find himself leaning into the caress. He tried speaking to lessen the tension that was threatening to overwhelm him. 

"Why didn't you run? Get out while you had the chance?" 

The question startled Blair a bit, but he answered honestly. "I don't know." His eyes searched Jim's for a reaction to his next admission. "It never even occurred to me that I could. The thought didn't even cross my mind." Blair smiled slightly, gently, and there was a glimmer of humor in his eyes. "My turn, now. Why did you untie me?"

Jim stared at nothing. "I told you. The lack of circulation was get - "

"Jim?" Blair cut him off and traced the line of Jim's jaw with his fingertips. "Why did you let me go?'

Jim tried again. "I… couldn't hurt you anymore." He looked at the front of Blair's shirt, obviously embarrassed by what he was about to say. "Blair, I… I need you."

Blair's hand, which had crept from Jim's shoulder to wrap around the back of his neck, was exerting a gentle pressure, pulling Jim forward ever so slightly. Jim didn't resist, letting himself be drawn gradually closer. He wasn't thinking clearly. The smell of Blair seemed to envelop him. The sound of Blair's breathing, the beating of his heart, all these things combined to cocoon Jim in a warm, safe haven where nothing existed but Blair Sandburg. 

Their lips were inches apart. It was obvious to Jim that Blair - a man - intended to kiss him. And he had no urge to pull away. 

When he brushed his lips against Jim's for the first time, Blair could feel the shudder that ran through the other man's body. Knowing that he'd had that effect on Jim was intoxicating - incendiary - a pre-explosive fusion at elemental level that left them both panting when Blair finally pulled back from the kiss. He needed oxygen. Fuel for the body - fuel for the reaction that was burning in the pit of Blair's stomach. He held back, though, waiting for a sign that Jim wanted this, too.

Jim, for his part, was reeling. He'd never felt this intensely about anyone - let alone another man - but that was swiftly becoming irrelevant, and it scared him. Since they'd kissed, Jim's senses had sharpened to a crystalline acuity, and they were all focused on Blair. The taste of the man was incredible, defied description. He wanted more. 

Mindful of Blair's injury, heedless of the consequences, Jim pulled Blair onto his lap. The warm, solid weight of him was incendiary. Blair was incendiary - combustion itself just wanting an accelerant. Heavy water. 

Jim groaned, clutching Blair tighter against his chest until he finally surrendered to need and kissed him. 

Blair didn't miss a beat. Parting his lips, he licked Jim's in invitation. He moaned when he felt Jim's tongue against his own. 

That was, Blair thought, as good a sign as any. Wrapping his good arm around Jim's shoulders and his legs around Jim's waist, Blair proceeded to seek, locate and destroy every defense Jim might have had to prevent this going any further. 

Jim gasped when he felt the paradigm shift. The tilt of his axis was changing by degrees, the flat earth rippling and curving to wrap itself around this new reality. Where sweet, coaxing, gently responsive Blair had once been was a fusion reaction in denim and flannel. Jim felt dizzy, weak and oh, so turned on. The more Blair gave, the more Jim was determined to give in return.

As hands and tongues played out the frustrations of the last few hours, Jim tinkered with the balance of power a little. Taking Blair's head in his hand, he lowered them both to the floor. Jim grazed the bruised area of Blair's scalp with his thumb while his other hand began wrestling with the problem of their clothing. He wanted it gone. 

Blair seemed to be in complete agreement because he was, at the moment, struggling unsuccessfully to unbutton Jim's shirt with one hand.

Trying not to think about the fact that he was the cause of that inconvenience, Jim took Blair's hand in his and started to undo the buttons himself. He didn't stop when he got to the last one, moving on and unfastening his belt and the button on his jeans before making short work of Blair's button-flys.

When Jim's fingers touched that first button, Blair's breath caught in his throat. By the time he'd reached the last one, there was no way Blair could have hoped to conceal his erection. Jim didn't seem to notice. He was too busy touching Blair, everywhere. His own hardness had been pressing insistently against Blair's thigh since before they'd even hit the floor. 

"What do you want, Jim," Blair murmured between kisses, echoing their conversation from minutes before. 

"I don't know," Jim gasped as Blair nipped at his earlobe.

Blair pulled back and placed his hands to either side of Jim's face. 

"Jim, what do you want? Tell me what you want." Blair couldn't let this go. He needed to hear the words - needed to know this was all right - that Jim knew what he was getting into.

"Jim?" Blair was gently insistent, determined not to be denied this final permission.

"I... I want you," Jim buried his face in the soft hairs on Blair's chest and inhaled deeply. "I need you."

"I want you too, Jim, believe me, I do." Jim's leg rubbed enticingly against his aching groin. Stifling a groan, Blair pressed on. "I have to hear it, Jim. I have to hear you say it. Tell me what you want, and it's yours."

Jim was panting against Blair's chest now, the effort of maintaining his self-control proving too much for him in his present state. 

"I want… I want… inside you." The admission seemed to cost Jim because he couldn't look at Blair afterwards. Instead, he began determinedly sucking and licking a wet trail down the side of Sandburg's neck.

The expression Blair wore was carefully serene. "Then I'm yours, Jim." He spared a moment to wonder what the hell they'd use for lube before remembering the lubricated condom in his wallet. He'd never been a Boy Scout, but he was always prepared. He knew he needed to get his jeans off - or at least down - but it was going to be impossible with his arm like this. He also figured he was going to have to guide Jim through it, or it wouldn't be very good for either of them.

Jim was still breathing hard, his face buried in Blair's hair while their erections bumped and rubbed together, teasing. Blair turned enough to whisper in Jim's ear.

"Help me with these jeans, Jim, and I'm all yours. Come on, man…."

He was stripped like a new Barbie, jeans peeled away and tossed aside. Blair picked them up to get the condom from his wallet. With his good hand, he offered it to Jim, a wolfish grin on his face. 

"Your turn, man." 

Jim obviously intended to leave his jeans on and get on with it. Blair was beyond caring, and he watched hungrily as Jim rolled the condom onto his erection. At least Jim wouldn't mind using condoms, Blair thought wryly. He sure couldn't claim lack of sensation!

As soon as the rubber was in place, Blair pulled Jim close and kissed him again, enjoying the hardness of his lover's body. His own excitement hadn't ebbed, and he lay back, pulling Jim down on top of him. Jim was looking a bit lost, and his erection had flagged a bit. *First time with a man, huh, big guy?* Blair grinned. That wasn't going to be an issue for long.

Blair reached down between Jim's legs and began a rhythmic stroking of the softening cock. "It's all right, Jim. No big deal. It's just like you're used to - tab A and slot B - only this time, slot B is a whole lot tighter." He grinned again at the look of surprise on Jim's face, wrapped his legs around Jim's hips and pulled. When he'd gotten Jim positioned just so, Blair slid a finger over the head of Jim's now fully erect cock, surreptitiously checking to see how much lube was left on the condom. 

It felt like enough, Blair thought. So this was it. 

"Last chance, Jim," Blair breathed. "If you don't back out now, I don't think I can let you later."

"Blair, I…" Jim stammered, "…I want you so much. Just…let me do this with you."

A smile lit Blair's face as he helped Jim find his way inside his warm, waiting body. 

Jim looked like he was in shock at first, but that expression was quickly replaced with one of wanton abandon as he began to move, slowly at first, setting a gentle rhythm in and out of Blair's body.

Blair had made a conscious effort to relax for Jim. Between that, experience, and the lubed rubber, he was feeling good. Great, in fact. Jim was being an almost unbelievably gentle, considerate lover, thrusting only slightly harder than Blair himself would if he were making love to a virgin. 

He wanted more, though, and saw no reason why Jim shouldn't know it. 

He tried to encourage his timid lover. 

"Oh, god, Jim that's good…. Harder, man. It's okay - you won't hurt me." 

Blair panted harshly as Jim's thrusts increased slightly in force. 

"Yeah, god, Jim. Harder. Just fuck me.…"

A bit more force accompanied Jim's smooth, even strokes.

"Harder!" 

Again, Jim complied and again, Blair demanded more.

It wasn't long before Jim was pounding into Blair, and Blair was lifting his hips and pushing up to meet Jim's thrusts for all he was worth.

When he felt himself getting close to orgasm, he gasped, tightening his internal muscles around Jim's cock as hard as he could. 

"Jim, I'm gonna… I'm gonna… come soon, man." 

He wrapped his arms around Jim tightly, pulling the bigger man down on top of him and using the leverage to change the angle of Jim's penetration so that almost every stroke was brushing his prostate.

Blair knew he wasn't going to last like this, but he wanted to come with Jim. He wrapped his arms around Jim's neck and murmured words of encouragement, nipping and licking his earlobe as he did so.

"Come for me, Jim. I want to come with you, man, and I'm so close…. Come with me, Jim. Come inside me. Come on… Come on…"

Blair couldn't hold back anymore. He spasmed as he came, wrapped tightly in one of Jim's strong arms, shooting his completion all over their chests and bellies. 

Jim was only a second behind. Urged on by Blair's words, Jim felt his own orgasm building as Blair's teeth worked his ear, Blair's breath tickled his neck, the scent of Blair surrounded him. Jim came quietly. 

Three hard thrusts and he froze, barely breathing, as the waves crashed over him, putting out the fire that had been burning in him since he and Blair had started this game. He collapsed on Blair then, breathing heavily and feeling more than a little sleepy. 

Blair was silent for quite awhile, only the pounding of his heart and panting breaths letting Jim know he was still alive. When Blair finally did move, it wasn't to push Jim off or try to separate their bodies. Instead, Blair turned his head enough to kiss Jim softly, lovingly, before an impish grin replace his soft expression.

"You know, I'd've gotten on my knees for you, Big Guy, but I was afraid the arm couldn't take it," he teased. The mischievous expression was quickly replaced with a soft smile, and Blair kissed Jim again before nuzzling and whispering in his ear. 

"Thank you." 

For some reason, Jim's face had clouded and he rolled off Blair, wiped at the mess on his chest with a piece of the torn bed sheet, and began to button his pants.

Uh oh. *Way to go, Sandburg,* Blair thought. *You just got as close to the guy as you've ever been, and you have to go and remind him how he hurt you. Real smooth.*

Blair sat up too, wiping the mess from his body with another corner of the filthy sheet. Ignoring the faint ache in his ass, he scooted closer to Jim. He placed his injured arm on Jim's lap, brushing lightly at the denim-covered thigh.

"I'll be okay, you know." Blair raised it a bit, wriggling the fingers slightly. His smile faded slightly as he spoke his next words. "It's not your fault."

Blair's arm was dropped painfully back onto his own lap as Jim turned away, shutting him out.

Blair wasn't sure why his reassurance had triggered that response. Probably guilt again. He wanted. - no, he needed - to find out. 

"Jim, listen to me. It. Wasn't. Your. Fault. Okay?"

No reaction.

"God, Jim! Don't you even want to know why?"

Blair had just about given up on getting any kind of response when Jim surprised him by grabbing his good arm, shaking him to punctuate angry words.

"Christ, Sandburg, how the hell can you say it wasn't my fault? I drugged you, knocked you out, practically fractured your goddamned skull, and you're trying to tell me it's not my fault? Sorry, but that's crap." Jim's words were harsh, but his posture was that of a beaten man.

Blair sighed. 

"Jim, I know you weren't really thinking too clearly then, man. You were... you know... in Tarzan mode, I guess. Operating on your survival instincts." 

Blair was on a roll, thoughts forming and pouring out in a torrent of enthusiastic energy. 

"Do you remember anything from my web site other than the specifically Sentinel-related stuff? Maybe the word, 'guide' rings a bell?" 

Blair gazed at Jim expectantly. 

Jim looked nonplussed, but Blair caught a glimpse of wistful hope in his eyes. Smiling, he took one of Jim's hands in his good one. 

"Well, man, you should have read a little more closely. You were freaking out because you're a Sentinel. With me so far?" In teacher mode now, Blair didn't wait for Jim to reply. "There was more than just the fight or flight, self-preservation imperative driving you, Jim. The new part of you - the Sentinel - knew what you needed. You needed to find your guide."

He was grinning now, ear to ear. "And you found me, Jim. I'm right here."


	6. Down

_"There was more than just the fight or flight, self-preservation imperative driving you, Jim. The new part of you - the Sentinel - knew what you needed. You needed to find your guide."_

_He was grinning now, ear to ear. "And you found me, Jim. I'm right here."_

 

Jim was looking shell-shocked, and Blair took advantage, kissing him lightly. 

Turning away abruptly, Jim blinked rapidly, still processing this new information. 

"Don't you see, man? You were doing this primitive Sentinel-kinda-throwback thing, Jim. Your senses were out of whack, the government was onto you, and you were feeling threatened. Your Sentinel instincts kicked your survival instincts into overdrive, and what those instincts were telling you was 'Find your guide.'"

Reaching out with his uninjured arm, Blair gently turned Jim back to face him. 

"You found me, man. It's okay now. You can turn it off. I'm here. We're here. It's okay." 

For a split second, Jim started to pull away again, to free himself from his new Guide's loose grasp on his arm. Instead, he turned and studied Blair carefully. 

"I remember something like that... in Peru... and on your web site. But how do you know you're my Guide? How did I know?" 

The pleading in Jim's voice made Blair wince, but he let go of Jim's arm with an exaggerated shrug. Jim was going to have to work through this for himself, as Blair had.

"I don't know, Jim. If you're looking for empirical evidence, man, I'm fresh out. But I do know that the way I feel about this… about 'us'… God, Jim. I've never felt this intensely about anyone before. It was, like, instant karma, or something." 

Blair's smile slipped, and he continued in a more serious tone. "You need to lose the guilt now, man. What's done is done. I'm over it. Call it an accident, fate, karma, divine intervention, whatever works for you, but… Let. It. Go. I forgive you. There. I said it. And what's more, there's nothing - and I do mean NOTHING - that you can say to me that could change how I feel."

* * *

Jim hadn't moved during Blair's impassioned declaration. He knew there were things he had to tell Blair, and he wasn't going to like them. The cold, snide voice in Jim's head taunted him. 

"You're a cold-blooded killer, Ellison. Whaddaya think the hippie's gonna think of you if you tell him the truth?" 

Jim winced. He had to tell Blair the truth. He knew it - he knew it and he had no choice. 

His heart was tightening in his chest. The kid was all passion, all wind. Making pretty speeches and pissing into the wind about fate, forgiveness, love…. 

Jim twitched. Where had that come from? 

Not love. Never love. The kid hadn't said anything about love, but somehow Jim's overworked brain had filled in the blanks. Maybe Blair wasn't the free-and-easy open book he appeared to be. But then, what Blair said hadn't all been true. Jim's shoulders slumped. Couldn't be. Because Jim knew if he told Blair what he'd done to get this far, he would most certainly NOT forgive him - not someone like Sandburg. He'd be shocked. Appalled. 

His kind always were. Idealists. Hippies. They lived in their safe, secure little worlds, protesting and philosophizing and condemning people like Jim - the soldiers, the cops. And all the while, it was their disposable karma that got put through the cosmic wringer as they killed, maimed, and fought to keep the Sandburgs of the world alive to condemn another day. 

Jim was getting pissed off just thinking about it, but a whisper of rational thought was tickling at the edges of his heightened awareness. Distant at first, the tone of hope began to enter his inner dialogue. 

Maybe, it soothed, he'd been trying to work himself up - to get pissed off enough at Blair to leave before Blair could rip his heart out by leaving first. Not like Jim hadn't pulled that before. Or maybe Sandburg really means what he says. Maybe he loves you enough that he means it - that he wouldn't leave. 

The new, infant hope wriggled joyfully as Jim explored the possibility.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling with a shuddering sigh, Jim finally turned and faced Blair. 

"Do you really mean anything, Sandburg?"

* * *

"Yes, Jim. Anything." 

Keeping his expression neutral, Blair watched while Jim picked at the inner seam of his jeans. He'd been careful to maintain that neutrality while Jim was silent. It was obvious that the guy was trying to process his feelings with some pretty rusty equipment. Blair figured, rightly, that this was a part of Jim that didn't see much use anymore, and there was nothing Blair could do but try to keep the gears turning while Jim worked it all out. 

He continued to wait, the picture of serenity, while Jim decided how to proceed.

"I'm not who you think I am, Blair."

*No condemnation, Sandburg. No judgement. Just draw him out.*

"Who are you, Jim?" 

"I've seen things… Done things. For the military, the government… I'm a killer, Blair."

"I'd figured you were in the military, Jim." He allowed himself a small smile. "The haircut and all that."

"Yeah, well, I was a Ranger before all this… this shit with my senses started happening. I did what I had to do then, and I'm not real proud of it, but I'm not talking about that." He sighed and ran an anxious hand through cropped hair. 

"Last month, in Vegas. The guys who'd been tailing me were getting too close. Way too close, and I had to do something to… you know, throw them off."

The seam of his jeans where he'd been worrying it was beginning to fray.

"I had to disappear. And nobody looks real hard for a dead man."

"So you faked your death." Matter of fact, neutral.

"Yeah. Yeah, but… I wanted to make it look good. I needed to do it right. Do it so there'd be as little doubt as possible in anyone's mind that I was out of the game. I had to buy as much time as I could."

"How'd you do it, Jim?"

"I needed… a body, Blair. I needed a body. So I… I made one."

Blair didn't let his thoughts show. Instead he stilled the hand that had now picked a hole in Jim's jeans, cradling it.

"I'm sorry. It must have been hard for you. You know death, Jim. You've seen it, you've fought it, and yeah, you've been its instrument. But ultimately, you always had control. Yeah, you followed orders, but you chose to follow those orders. You've always had a choice, always acted on your conscience. You weren't in control this time, Jim. And I'm sorry you've had that guilt laid on you, man. I am." 

Jim was staring at Blair like he'd grown a second head. 

"Sandburg, didn't you hear me? Did you hear ANY of what I just said here? I killed a man so I could live. A man who was not threat to me, to anyone probably. How can you just sit there and hold my hand and say you're sorry?" 

"Because you're sorry, Jim. Because it hurts you. Because I forgive you."

Jerking like Blair had hit him rather than pardoning him, Jim made a frantic attempt to get away from his confessor. 

Blair must have been expecting it, because he'd caught Jim's wrist in a firm grip, murmuring "Come here," and wrapping his good arm firmly around Jim's shoulders. Blair guided Jim's head to rest against his neck, rocking and cuddling the larger man against his chest.

Taken completely by surprise at the tenderness of Blair's gesture, Jim let out a small gasp of protest before it hit him. 

It was like his mother was there, holding him after his father had spanked him for some imagined wrong. It was his brother's arm around him, comforting, after their mother had left them. His first girlfriend's awkward hugs in the driveway behind the tree so her parents wouldn't see. 

It was home. He was home.

Jim relaxed into Blair's embrace, smelling the unique scents that were Blair's alone and wondering how he'd survived alone for so long. 

He hadn't realized he was crying until Blair's softly murmured words of comfort registered dimly in his ears. But Jim was too far gone in grief and guilt to listen to his Guide. He cried for the men he'd lost in Peru. He cried for the man he'd killed in Vegas, he cried for what he'd done to Blair, and he cried for what he had - so briefly - become. 

He woke up to find his head resting on Blair's lap, the other man's hand absently brushing the hair back from Jim's forehead while his lips formed yet another smile. 

"Good morning." Blair looked down at Jim before glancing out the murky glass and smiling more broadly. "Or maybe good evening, I think. I seem to have lost track of time. Sorry." 

Jim winced. This grinning Blair didn't look very sorry, but he did look weary and gaunt. 

Sitting up slowly, Jim stretched muscles aching from their time on the cabin's hard floor.

Jim was feeling somewhat embarrassed by his breakdown, but he knew it wouldn't last. And it was okay if it did - he also knew Blair wouldn't hold it against him. Blair would forgive him because Blair loved him. Jim felt a rush of warmth at the mere thought. It energized him, and he pulled himself to his feet. 

"Come on, Chief. Let's get out of here and get some food. What do you say?"

"Sounds good to me, man. I'm starved!" Blair got up more slowly, with Jim's help, and was just readjusting his glasses on his nose when he turned wide eyes on Jim. 

"Uh, Jim? I don’t mean to be a party-pooper, but what about the guys who are after you? I mean, okay, Sentinel meets Guide and all that, which is great, man, really. But that hasn't changed the fact that somebody out there wants you to be their lab rat."

"I don’t know what's going to happen, Chief, but..." Taking a deep breath, he finished the sentence so quietly Blair had to strain to hear, "I think we can handle it."

 

End - Ashes, Ashes


End file.
